


I'll Keep Your Bad Days, Your Darkness, and Still Love You

by byjosten



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Andreil, Andrew has bad days, Bad Days, Boyfriends, Depression, Established Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard, Exy (All For The Game), Fluff, M/M, Neil looks after him, References to Depression, Soft Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:34:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22694872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byjosten/pseuds/byjosten
Summary: Andrew has a bad day and Neil is there for him, whatever ways he needs.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 22
Kudos: 277





	I'll Keep Your Bad Days, Your Darkness, and Still Love You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [akingman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akingman/gifts).



> HIIIII, i'm back with soft Andreil. This was based on me wanting to look after my boyfriend when he has bad days and cursing the miles between us that make it impossible to teleport to his house and hold him.

There was never one single way to know Andrew Minyard. Where other people could have a direct path right through them--this is this way, that is that way, this is how to navigate me--, Andrew had none of that.

If anything, he was a Wonderland: signs reading upside down, pointing the wrong ways, messages that were unclear until the point of brutal honesty had to be  _ right there _ , leaving Neil already lost and, in the end, once the meaning was clear:  _ fairly silly _ .

But whilst there was no way to know Andrew there were things he knew about him. Like his favourite ice cream flavour or the way his knuckles tightened on sharp corners as he sped around them a touch too fast. Like how when he said Neil was the biggest pain in his ass was because he likely needed something and wouldn’t ask for it.

Neil might walk an unclear path that was Andrew Minyard but it was a familiar sort of unclear. And after so much time spent together, he knew particular things.

He knew, sensed, guessed--whatever it was--when Andrew was having a bad day without ever having to be in the same room as him.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, he checked his phone. Andrew wasn’t necessarily one for strict schedules but he was always  _ awake  _ by a certain time. It didn’t always mean he checked his phone but there was always some semblance of noise.

He looked at the clock and sighed. One in the afternoon.

He wanted to say, “What can I do to help?” Because Andrew would say, “Nothing.”

And after enough time together, Neil knew there was always something that could  _ ease  _ the day. Not cure it, not cure him, not banish it out of existence, but there was always a  _ way  _ for easing Andrew through it. 

Neil made two drinks: one for himself, one for Andrew. He made it in the white mug that Andrew had bought not too long ago. There was nothing orange or sport-like about it, no fox or blocky number in sight. On a bad day, Andrew wouldn’t want reminding of the one biggest commitment he had to uphold.

He heated milk in a pan and scooped cocoa powder into the white cup. He poured in the milk, whisking it until it was smooth, and the scent of it would be enough to drift through to Andrew.

Neil put the two drinks on a tray, dug in the freezer for Andrew’s stash of ice cream, put a tub on the tray, along with a spoon, and knocked on the door to his bedroom--their bedroom, in their shared dorm.

There was a rough noise from inside, and Neil waited until there was a louder, muffled noise of, “What?”

“Can I come in?”

“Whatever.”

Neil, still balancing the tray on one hand, pushed open the door. He’d been awake for hours. When he had left the bed at six that morning, Andrew had been splayed out, asleep, face relaxed and peaceful. At some point he’d dragged himself out of bed to get what Neil now knew as the  _ Bad Day Hoodie _ . Except it was a bundle on the edge of his bed, like he’d had the energy to grab it but not to put it on.

He set the tray down next to Andrew. He sniffed the air tentatively, narrowed eyes looking up at Neil from a mound of duvet. “Is that hot chocolate?”

“Yes.”

“And ice cream?”

“I come with options,” Neil said. He hovered, eyes flickering between Andrew, the edge of the bed, and the hoodie. He reached out to take it but Andrew flicked a finger up.

“Leave it.”

“Don’t you want to put it on?”

“I’m warm enough in here.”

But beneath the duvet, Neil noticed Andrew’s bare shoulders were curved tightly inwards. He wasn’t warm enough at all. They never talked about Andrew having a bad day. There was no obvious,  _ bad day? - Well done, genius.  _ There were just soft offers and quiet and Neil being there to do whatever Andrew needed him to do.

“I can help.”

“You’ve done enough,” Andrew sighed. He tugged an arm free and poked the side of his white cup. He almost looked wistful before looking up at Neil again. “Fine. Help me. I don’t think… You know.”

“I know,” Neil said. He let Andrew pushed back the duvet enough to bare his arms and shoulders, enough for Neil to prepare the hoodie and hold it out, but Andrew slumped back, sighing.

“I have zero energy,” he said. “ _ Help me _ .”

So Neil did. He lifted Andrew so he sat up against a pillow, arms barely lifted as Neil put the hoodie on him. Before he could blink, Andrew had it tugged over his torso and was burrowed back into the duvet.

“Do you want me to stay?” Neil asked. Usually, on days like this, it was a toss up between Andrew needing him to be in the room, or needing Neil as far away as possible so there was no necessity to talk. There never was, anyway. Both of them knew if there was anything they were good it was knowing words didn’t always cut it to make a situation better.

When Andrew didn’t answer, Neil went to back up, figuring he’d practice or go for a walk, anything to get him away from the dorm, until Andrew’s fingers wrapped around his wrist and yanked him forward. Neil stumbled, an arm shooting out to brace himself on the edge of the bed. He looked down at Andrew.

A finger ran up his bare up, Andrew’s eyes fixed on the path his finger took, swirling a shape into the inside of his elbow, pushing up the sleeve of his t-shirt. He clamped his fingers around Neil’s forearm, pressing a hard touch into him. He often did that but Neil had never asked why.

“Stay,” Andrew said quietly. “Stay over that side and be quiet.”

Neil nodded, feeling every bit of weight Andrew’s stare had on him. But Andrew didn’t release him. He only pressed harder, eyes slipping shut as he breathed deeply, and Neil watched something work out on Andrew’s face.

When he grasped the collar of Neil’s shirt and pulled hard, Neil fell onto him, rolling over quickly to be off him, taking his place on the other side, as he’d been instructed. An apology was already on his lips when Andrew cut him a glare. “I don’t make mistakes.”

“I know, but--”

“I need you closer.” It was a quiet admission, something heavy on Andrew’s tongue, and Neil hesitated a moment before shifting closer, so his chest pressed to Andrew’s back, the duvet between them. Andrew reached out and draped one of Neil’s arms over him, and, beyond anything, Neil’s mind blanked when he felt Andrew  _ snuggling into his touch _ . His heart stuttered and melted, a puddle of emotion without words, a fondness at seeing Andrew take what he needed--a soft touch, a need for comfort.

“Why do you do that?” he dared ask.

“I told you to be quiet,” Andrew said. Then, after a few silent beats he said, “Do what?”

“Dig your fingers into my arm.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No, I’m just curious.”

Andrew didn’t move to look at him, he stayed looking outward, so all Neil saw was his blonde hair, poking out the top of the duvet. He thought he wasn’t getting an answer, so he relaxed his shoulders, his arm over the shape of Andrew beneath him.

“ _ Neil is real; Neil is here _ . That’s what I tell myself every time I do it. Sometimes it still doesn’t… Sink in. You can not shut up sometimes, but other times you move like a ghost and don’t speak and I can’t always remember if you’re real or not. Then you show up on days like this with hot chocolate and ice cream, and it… Makes me feel weird. I like it, but it’s weird. I have to remind myself of your warmth, your heartbeat,  _ just you _ .”

Neil blinked at the confession, words dying on his tongue.  _ Neil is real; Neil is here _ . He never knew why Andrew clung onto his arm like he did, why he closed his eyes, just feeling, not watching. Because the mind could play tricks on the eyes; he could conjure enough--had done, he imagined, when he was medicated. But closing his eyes, relying only on the feel of Neil’s skin beneath his touch? That wasn’t something he could make up.

“I’ve always told you, Andrew,” Neil said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“My bad days aren’t romantic and manic pixie boy, Neil. Don’t try to make them soft. They’re not.”

“I’m not trying to do that,” Neil said quietly. “I only want you to know I’m here to talk or be quiet--however you need me.”

There was silence for a while. “And I told you I have no energy so take the quiet option.”

So Neil did, smiling when Andrew linked his fingers through Neil’s, tugging him closer. Sometimes getting lost in their own thoughts was enough. By the time Neil thought Andrew had well fallen asleep, and his own eyes were shutting again, Andrew said, “Tell me a story. I need… Something else to think about. No Exy, no foxes, nothing  _ sad _ . I’m done with sad. Tell me something good, better. If I hear one description of orange you can find other company arrangements.”

“Got it,” Neil muttered. Andrew often liked that; liked hearing stories about Neil’s past, a time when he wasn’t necessarily Neil Josten, but just a boy who had no idea what kind of family he would find. A boy Andrew had no knowledge of except in snippets. It was the only time he let Neil talk without interruption, letting his voice run away with a story, lulling Andrew to a better place with words.

He told him the story about when he was ten years old, and in some place with more sun than he’d ever seen in his life. He told Andrew about the sun painted freckles onto his shoulders, and watched as he shifted, as though he started to look back and  _ see the freckles  _ before remembering. Neil’s brain caught on the way Andrew had shoved up his shirt sleeve before, but he went on.

He told him about diving into a lake, swinging from a rope with a makeshift seat in the form of a thick branch. He laughed whilst telling it, and Andrew didn’t stop him. He talked and talked, until Andrew wordlessly handed him the second drink he’d made.

It was Neil who opened Andrew’s ice cream and offered the spoon.

It was Andrew who didn’t sit up or barely moved as he ate and listened.

It was Neil who fussed that he wasn’t in the right position to eat.

It was Andrew who didn’t move another muscle all day, and listened to Neil talk.

It didn’t matter that his eyelids drooped and Neil paused in yet another story, because Andrew made a noise for him to go on. So Neil talked and talked until his voice went hoarse and he wasn’t sure if he’d ever talked so much in a short space of time--but Andrew needed it, and Andrew wanted it, and it was a piece of him he could offer on a bad day.

It wasn’t until Neil told Andrew a time where he had fought another boy one summer for the last particular ice cream. Everything had gone wrong that week and Neil was  _ tired _ , and wanted the last strawberry flavour. It wasn’t until he stressed to Andrew how pressed he had been over having to get another shitty flavour that Andrew let out the tiniest huff of a laugh. The sound was like a tonne of serotonin in one go; a pleased feeling spread through Neil at making Andrew laugh, tugging him out of the dark brain fog enough to allow a small laugh, even if it was half-formed. He had amused Andrew, genuinely, sincerely, and that was enough.

Before he knew it, it was six o clock, and Andrew had lapsed into another nap. Neil lay next to him, arm still draped over him, and watched the rise and fall of Andrew’s chest beneath the duvet.

His brain kept ticking over those words:  _ Neil is real; Neil is here _ . Andrew, so sure of himself; Andrew, short with words sometimes and heavy with insults and nonchalance more times than not. Andrew, still unsure about Neil staying. Andrew, reminding himself that Neil--the boy whom had always thought he needed to be as far from Andrew as possible to keep him happy--was real, and he was staying.

His skin remembered each time Andrew had pressed fingertips into it. He remembered the first time Andrew had gone it: he’d clung on for what seemed like endless minutes, jaw tight and a muscle in his cheek twitching. He had been reminding himself. Each time, no matter how many days they spent together, he was reminding himself.

Neil wanted to hold Andrew, wanted to press his face into his neck, and assure him he would always be there, that he would never be without him again. They had gone that, over and over, waited on each other, the absence felt too strongly. But not again--Neil couldn’t do any of it again.

And for all his strong exterior, neither could Andrew, he realised with a start.

For all his  _ be quiet _ ’s and insistence that he actually couldn’t stand Neil, Andrew didn’t want to be without him either.

He looked at their entwined fingers, the empty ice cream tub, the hot chocolate stain on the rim of the white mug, and smiled. Bad days were  _ bad _ , but pushed away or tugged close, Andrew knew he was there, wanted to know Neil was always there.

And Neil… He would follow Andrew into any darkness or light any time.

*

It was seven o clock by the time he finally moved, Andrew still sleeping next to him. He hated leaving him alone but he couldn’t deny his body’s demands, and so slowly slipped off the bed. Andrew sighed and shifted in his sleep but didn’t wake up.

Neil looked once more at the boy buried in comfort and warmth before leaving the bedroom. He hovered in the kitchen. Andrew would need to eat but Neil knew he wouldn’t voluntarily extract himself from his bed to eat. He needed something other than sugar but something that didn’t require too much effort to eat. Soup was simple but he couldn’t imagine Andrew maintaining enough energy to consistently lifting a spoon to eat it.

Fast food could work--it was comfortable enough, and Neil knew what Andrew ordered.

He text Nicky:  _ if I buy you dinner, would you order food for Andrew and me and drop it off?  _ He hoped there was enough emphasis on “drop it off”.

His reply came quick:  _ if you’re buying then sure _ .

Half an hour later, Nicky knocked quietly on their dorm room and handed a bag over. They exchanged whispers; Nicky asked how Andrew was, Neil was non-committal but handed over money. He knocked for Andrew again. This time he was still asleep, so Neil backed out, rolled the bag up with Andrew’s food in, and sat on the couch to eat his. He’d seen Andrew’s phone next to him on the bedside table, so he sent a message to let him know he had food there when he was ready for it, and Neil could bring it if he wanted.

As he waited for a response, he turned the TV on, some mindless background noise. He would eat with Andrew.

Twenty minutes later, he heard it, the creaking of the bedroom door, the rustle of a duvet fitting through a doorway, then Andrew was next to him on the couch, sat down before falling sideways onto Neil’s lap.

His hands found Andrew’s hair immediately, combing through the blonde strands. Andrew’s eyes closed, a small noise coming from his throat, as he tucked the duvet around himself but also offering some to Neil. In the end, it was haphazardly half thrown over Neil’s legs, covering Andrew’s waist, but not his face. It didn’t do much good.

“Thank you,” Andrew said, voice muffled into Neil’s t-shirt as he turned his face inward.

“How are you feeling?”

Andrew gestured to Neil’s fingers in his hair. “This helps.”

Neil hummed and carried on.

“There’s food on the counter,” Neil said after a while.

“And you on the couch,” Andrew countered. “I prefer to have this.”

“You need to eat.”

“I had ice cream.”

“Something not piled with sugar.”

Andrew made a dismissive noise. “Later. I like you doing this. If I eat, I’ll have to sit up.”

“I can still play with your hair when you sit up.”

Andrew shot him a look. “Just… Stay like this with me.”

Neil nodded and gazed down at Andrew, who kept his eyes ahead, fixed on Neil’s t-shirt. He touched his waist through the thin material, not quite putting pressure on the touch but just feeling. Light touches trailing across his stomach and the sides of his waist.

Curled into him, Andrew’s face was vacant as he touched, absently swirling over his t-shirt.

Neil would always want Andrew: good day, bad day; good brain, bad brain; sober or otherwise. He would want him because they were still Andrew--and he wanted every part of him.


End file.
